


A Little Bittersweet

by sinuous_curve



Category: Captain America, Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Food Sex, M/M, Mpreg, Sensation Play, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Steve knows he could have someone else make the winding drive down from the bluff to get whatever Tony happens to be craving, but he likes doing it himself. Even if it means Alyssa, the young woman who works the overnight shift, greets him with a familiar wave and has a pint of Cherry Garcia waiting for him when midnight rolls around and Steve comes ambling in. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> This is massively self-indulgent and I have wanted to write something like this for rather a long time. My thanks to lyo.

There’s a convenience story a not-unreasonable distance from Tony’s house, tucked in a little row of shops at the bottom of the hill and blessedly open twenty-four hours.

Steve knows he could have someone else make the winding drive down from the bluff to get whatever Tony happens to be craving, but he likes doing it himself. Even if it means Alyssa, the young woman who works the overnight shift, greets him with a familiar wave and has a pint of Cherry Garcia waiting for him when midnight rolls around and Steve comes ambling in.

“Four eighty-eight?” Steve asks, yawning.

Alyssa smiles. “One of these days they’re going to jack up the price and we’ll be both be screwed.”

Steve laughs a little, pulling a ten from his battered wallet and laying it down on the counter. “So long as it doesn’t happen in the next eight weeks, we’ll be okay. Keep the change.” He picks up the thin plastic bag by the handles and stifles another yawn behind his hand.

“Thanks. Just eight weeks?” Alyssa asks, popping open the cash register and slapping the ten down on a crumpled stack. “Man, it seems like it was just last week that you came busting in here begging for Ben and Jerry’s.”

Steve nods wryly. “God bless you for that. I’ll see you later, Alyssa.”

She raises a hand in farewell. “I’ll keep a pint hidden in the back.”

It takes Steve fifteen minutes to maneuver Tony’s ridiculously ostentatious car out of the convenience store’s small parking lot and wind his way up the hill to the house. Jarvis opens the gate with a polite hello and the observation that Master Stark has been wondering quite vociferously if Steve decided to milk the fucking cow and churn the ice cream himself.

Steve eases into the garage and returns the car to its proper spot. Tony pampers his vehicles in a way that most people love their friends and family; Steve has made wry peace with the truth that he will never understand it, and the best he can do is respect Tony’s system accordingly. He takes the back door into Tony’s lab, nestled beneath the house proper where a basement ought to be, then pushes through the glass door and up the stairs to the actual living space.

The lights on the main floor are dimmed from inactivity and Steve, after so many years, is so familiar with the layout of the house he doesn’t need to raise them to make his way to the second floor stairs. He takes them two at a time with the cold ice cream banging damply against his knee.

Their bedroom door is the third on the right of the second floor and it’s still half-open from when Steve obligingly dragged himself out of bed because Tony was craving Cherry Garcia so badly he insisted he was going to fall over and die if he didn’t get some. After five solid months of the same craving, Steve no longer has any small, genuine fear that Tony might be right about the imminent harm part. But as Tony gets bigger, Steve’s found himself less and less able to roll over and tell him to go get it himself if he wants it so badly.

Steve shuffles into their bedroom and knocks the door closed with one foot, even though they’re alone in the house with no one to accidentally walk past and get an eyeful. Old habits die hard and Steve has come to hold very strongly to his belief in basic human privacy. The many times he’s seen pictures of himself splashed across the fronts of cheap magazines has driven home that fact rather neatly.

“You are the most impatient man alive,” Steve tells Tony, slipping off his sandals and holding out the plastic bag like a peace offering.

Tony’s sitting up in bed surrounded by a sumptuous mound of pillows that have slowly migrated from various placed as the months progressed and it got more and more difficult for Tony to find a comfortable way to lay down. He’s reacted to his condition with infinitely more grace and good humor than Steve ever would have expected, but Tony’s baseline for ebullience is rather lower than his proclivity for complaining, loudly, when things don’t deign to go his way.

“Did you drive all the goddamn way to LA?” Tony asks, holding out his hands.

Steve snorts, peeling away the plastic bag as he crosses their ridiculously sized bedroom and sits on his side of the bed. “I was gone for thirty minutes,” he says reasonably. “Which isn’t the fastest, I admit, but there were people in the parking lot of the convenience store who didn’t know how to drive.”

He sets a pair of plastic spoons, helpfully provided by Alyssa after Steve mentioned he always forgot to get actual cutlery, on the bedside table and swings his legs up onto the bed. The vaguely plastic sides of the carton are beaded with moisture that makes Steve’s palm tingle from the coldness after just a few moments of holding it. Tony shifts toward him, setting down whatever sheaf of official Stark Industry papers he picked up to read in Steve’s interminable absence. He rubs at his stomach absently where his tee shirt stretches so tight little lines of distension appear in the thin fabric.

“Gimme that,” Tony orders amiably.

Steve flicks a hand at him. “I have a better idea.” He cracks the little plastic seal that holds the lid on, crumples it up, and sets it on the bedside table. He pries the lid off and looks at the melted layer accumulated on top consideringly.

Tony arches an eyebrow. “Unless you’re playing on smearing it over my face so I can absorb it through my skin, I want that shit in my hands so I can eat it.”

“Appealing as that is,” Steve intones, catching one of the spoons in his finger and dragging it through the ice cream to gather as large a bite as he can manage without it falling off. “Open your mouth.”

“Oh, I see.” Tony’s expression turns from vaguely annoyed to pleased. He obediently opens his mouth and Steve pops in the spoon.

There is something just a touch obscene about the utter pleasure that blossoms on Tony’s face as the ice cream touches his tongue. He groans from the very bottom of his lungs, with a depth of feeling and intensity that he doesn’t always have when he _climaxes_. Steve keeps his fingers touched to the plastic handle of the spoon and watches with indulgent fondness as Tony licks his lips and swallows with a sigh of utter bliss.

“What you wanted?” Steve asks, grinning.

He pops the spoon out of Tony’s mouth and gets a lascivious smirk in response. “Exactly,” Tony agrees. “Now give me that before I have to crawl over you to get it.”

Steve passes the carton to Tony with the spoon stuck proudly in the center like a flag of ownership. Tony settles back against the mound of carefully arranged pillows arrayed against the headboard and scoops up another bite. The look that spasms across his face as he savors it is only marginally less orgasmic than the first.

Amused, as always, Steve fluffs up his two solitary pillows and flops down on his side. He was tired, bordering on the edge of wanting to go to sleep, when Tony looked at him and said he was having a craving with every expectation that Steve would do something about it. But he isn’t sleepy anymore; maybe from driving, maybe from moving, or maybe just from watching Tony eat with a sensuality like he’s on his knees in front of Steve.

And Steve does like watching Tony. He has since the first time they met, when Tony was the calmest, most considering face in a crowd of shocked scientists trying to explain how Steve’s existence was possible for the second time in his life. Looking back it seems like a logical progression of events from teammate to friend to lover, but it felt like it all happened whiplash fast at the time. It’s only been the last year or so that Steve’s felt like he’s had time to breathe without the bedrock of his life changing again.

He knew about Tony’s history, his gender, long before they ever kissed drunkenly surrounded by the detritus of a whiskey and beer. Steve fretted about it, of course, but once they were naked together he found it was impossible to look at Tony and see anything other than the man he is, regardless of what configuration of genitals lay between his thighs.

“This is the best shit in the universe that doesn’t fuck with your head,” Tony says, pulling the spoon slowly from his mouth with a wet smack of lips. He lavishly licks away a little spot of ice cream that got left behind on the corner of his mouth and casts Steve an appraising glance. “Want some?”

“I can’t believe you actually asked that,” Steve says honestly.

Tony smirks and shrugs. “I guess you have earned it, o’ captain, my captain. We’re gonna end up obligated to name this kid after the girl who works down at that store. Amy.”

“Alyssa,” Steve corrects, opening his mouth.

Tony scoops a small dollop of ice cream onto the spoon and tips it into Steve’s mouth. The sweet taste spreads silkily over his tongue and he takes his time letting it melt in his mouth before he swallows. It’s not quite the same level of crashing pleasure Tony groans his way through at every taste, but it is very, very good. Steve idly wonders if it would taste better licked from Tony’s skin.

“Good?” Tony asks.

Steve nods. “Good.”

Tony shifts the pint back to resting on top of the swell of his stomach. The baby falls squarely under the heading of things _neither_ of them were expecting. To be honest, the prospect was so completely out of the realm of Steve’s expectation that he didn’t honestly understand what Tony was saying when he told him. Granted, Tony did punctuate the announcement by hurling of his many very pretty, very heavy crystal awards at the wall four feet from Steve’s head, but still.

There was a two week period where Tony didn’t leave his workshop. He slept and ate behind the pointedly closed and password locked glass door, working on a series of projects he’d been pushing off until he had the time. Steve took to sitting at the top of the stairs, eating whenever Pepper brought him a plate of takeout and clapped him on the shoulder in solidarity. When Tony came out, late on a Wednesday night with dark circles under his eyes and a very stubborn set to his jaw, he said, “I’m doing this. You can stay or go, but I’m doing this,” and they never talked about the why of it after that.

Carefully, Steve reaches out and splays his palm over Tony’s stomach. He strokes his hand delicately over the high, rounded curve. The skin feels stretched so taut already. He wonders how on earth it will manage to find any more give in the next two months. “You good?” Steve asks.

Tony looks up from his ice cream orgy of one and smiles with a kind of gentleness he very rarely has. “Pretty good,” he says, nodding. He takes another bite and groans with enough depth and protracted length that Steve almost blushes. “Better with this. And don’t stop,” he adds, pointing his spoon at Steve’s hand.

Steve doesn’t deny Tony much of anything these days. And he likes touching him besides. “Does that feel good?”

“Yeah.” Tony scoops up ice cream and touches the tip of the spoon to Steve’s lips. Steve opens automatically and hums with pleasure as the sweet taste fills his mouth again. There’s a nice little chunk of cherry at the center of the ice cream that bursts against his tongue when he bites down on it. “Hey, you want to try something a little kinky?”

Experience has taught Steve what a roll of the dice such a proposition is with Tony; half the time it leads to things that feel so wonderful Steve walks with a pleasant limp for two days afterward and half the time it leads to things so incredibly odd Steve wonders whether Tony made them up just to see if Steve would go along with them. He likes the feel of the moment between them as it is, the pleasant aftertaste of the ice cream lingering on the back of his tongue and the soft sensation of Tony’s shirt and stomach beneath his palm.

“How kinky?” Steve asks with an eyebrow raised.

Tony laughs and bends down for a quick little kiss. “Not that kinky.”

“Okay.”

Carefully, Tony sets the pint on his bedside table with the spoon stuck firmly in the center. He crosses his arms over the top of his stomach and just manages to catch the hem of his shirt in his fingers so he can pull it up and off. There’s a line bisecting his navel that begins beneath his rib cage and disappears into the waistband of his pants slung low on his hips beneath his stomach. Steve thumbs it to a little soft sound of pleasure from Tony as he picks the pint back up and takes one more quick bite with his eyes closed against the pleasure.

Then he very carefully spoons up as big a scoop as he can manage, balancing it precariously on the plastic utensil with his steady ironmonger’s hands. The tip of his tongue pokes out of his mouth as he lifts the spoon from the carton and then promptly upends it on the top of his stomach.

“Shit, that’s cold,” Tony says, but there’s no distress his voice to cut through the quality of sighed pleasure that colors his voice so thickly. He looks at Steve with a wicked smile pulling at the corners his mouth. “That bite was for you.”

This is the kind of kinky Steve thoroughly enjoys. He pushes himself up onto his elbow and shifts over, pressing his hand to the side of Tony’s stomach. He kisses Tony’s shoulder first, then bends down and licks up the rapidly melting ice cream with delicate flicks of his tongue. Tony’s hand drifts up to settle curled around Steve’s skull, thumb stroking at the soft patch of skin right behind his ear. “Christ fucking God Almighty,” Tony murmurs.

When he’s lapped the last of the ice cream from Tony’s skin, Steve kisses the cold patch left behind with an open mouth. He pulls back with a small, satisfied smile and looks at Tony. “That was delicious.”

Tony stretches to kiss him. His lips taste like Cherry Garcia.

“Want another?” Tony asks, smirking when they pull apart.

Steve snorts and manages to snake the spoon from Tony’s hand. He licks a little bit of remaining ice cream from the plastic, and scoops up a nice bit bite with a couple chunks of cherry protruding enticingly from the ice cream. “Open up,” Steve says.

Tony’s mouth falls open and Steve gently eases the spoon into his mouth. Tony sighs, closing his eyes. “It never stops being good. Christ.”

Laughing, Steve drops the spoon back into the open pint and bends down for another kiss. Tony’s mouth still tastes heavily of cherry and Steve licks his way in. He likes the shocking difference between Tony’s hot mouth and the rapidly warming ice cream on his tongue. Tony laughs a little into the kiss, groping his arm behind him to set the ice cream on his bedside table. He drapes his arm over Steve’s shoulder and trails his fingers over the back of Steve’s neck.

“That will melt if you leave it out,” Steve huffs against Tony’s mouth. He’s not so very tired any more.

Tony snorts and pushes Steve down onto the bed. “It’s not gonna go to waste, trust me.”


End file.
